His Every Wish
by Ferowyn
Summary: On his deathbed, Thorin is granted a wish that can change past and present. He wishes that Smaug never came. When he wakes up, he is in Erebor, his father is the King, Frerin is alive and Erebor is prosperous. But.


Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt

hob bit -k ink .l iv ejou rn al 9 4 7 1.h tml?t hre ad=2 0865023#t20865023

* * *

**His Every Wish**

When Thorin wakes up-

Wait a minute.

He wakes up?

There is something entirely wrong here, obviously. The last he remembers is that he was _dying_.

He also remembers Bilbo being there, with tears in his eyes and his tiny fingers trembling. He had wished for… oh, he had wished for so much in those moments that – surely – were going to be the last of his life.

He had wished for his sister-sons to be alive. He had wished for Erebor to be _his_. He had wished for his sister to be happy, and not to have to come to her home only to find all her family dead. He had wished for Bilbo to stop crying. He had wished for the pain in his back to stop. He had wished for… yes, he had wished for many things.

Most of all, however, he had wished for Smaug to never have existed.

Then darkness had claimed him.

Blurrily he remembers a strange, dark voice offering him to grant him a wish – any wish – as long as it was his heart's desire.

His heart's desire…

Tearing his eyes open he sits up, surprised that all injuries seem to be gone – and that he is lying in a disturbingly comfortable bed within a room he knows so very well. In a way.

For a moment he thinks that he has been sent into the past, that everything was no more than a dream, that everything is like it _should_ be, without the blasted dragon-

Then he sees the changes.

It is not much, really.

His room looks mostly the same it did back then, the way he remembers it, apart from little details. A mirror here, some books there, a portrait he has never seen before.

For a moment it takes everything he has to offer not to panic.

What- … what in Mahal's name has happened here? Has his wish really been granted? He threads his fingers into his beard, which is much longer than it was just before he closed his eyes the last time, with difficult braids and rich beads woven into it. Clearly it shows who he is – a royal of Durin's line. Something he had always thought unwise in the years travelling across Middle Earth, trying to support for his homeless people and his family. Too much would be paid for Thorin Oakenshield's head.

Now… clearly, there is no need to do that.

Doing what he had wanted to do in the first place he lets his fingers run through his hair, catching a strand of it and giving it a scrutiny. The grey streaks are there, plainly visible.

No time travel, then.

Thoroughly confused he stands, finding himself dressed in finery he has not felt upon his skin for a long time.

_Balin_, he thinks. _Balin will help me. If he should not know what has happened, at least he must be able to tell me what has changed. I can trust him._

Hurriedly he makes for his wardrobe, choosing clothes for the day which he thinks will fit for most circumstances, and then leaves his royal suite after running his fingers through his hair again in order to tame it a little. Quickly he rushes through the corridors and halls of Erebor, which he still remembers so well, and which look more prosperous than even before the dragon came.

Finding Balin should be easy – because where else could his friend and most loyal follower besides Dwalin be but in the library?

Wherever he meets dwarves they bow, showing him respect like he deserves; however, when he turns around he sees them whisper and mutter, dark and unhappy expressions lining their features. What in Durin's name is going on here?

He has reached the library and quickly makes for the office he remembers to be Balin's, only to find it… empty. _Burned out_.

For more than a minute he just stands and stares, dumbfounded, until one of the librarians makes his way over to him, bowing. "Can I be of any help, your Majesty?"

For a moment Thorin contemplated asking about Balin, where he is, what has happened here, because he _needs to talk to him_, but then he changes his mind. Whatever is going on, clearly he has been part of it, a part which he now no longer he remembers. And judging by the faces of the other dwarves present, deep scowls which they manage to hide more or less well (oh, he has learned to read people!), not everything is love, peace and harmony. Not wanting to arouse any suspicion he just shakes his head jerkily and leaves again.

There is only one option: He must find his sister-sons.

Fili and Kili will surely listen to him, to his unbelievable story, and tell him all he needs to know. They are good lads, and they will help their uncle.

_If they are alive_, he thinks with sudden dread. _Just because I have survived injures that should have been deadly does not mean they have, too… and who knows what happened in the last sixty years._

By now he is running, for the royal suites, ready to search each and every one until he finds one single person he knows he can trust with _anything_. Bordering on hysterical he dashes into the suite next to his, only to be granted a sight he has never expected to see again.

There, at the desk, working through a stack of parchments, sits Frerin.

Frerin.

His brother.

His _dead_ brother.

The blonde looks up, then, and gives him a strained smile. "Thorin," he says, coolly. "What do you need?"

And this is too much. He is a prince, before this happened he was King Under the Mountain (if only for a painfully short time), he is of Durin's line, of sturdy material, a proper dwarf – but he passes out.

* * *

The next time he comes to it is not such a surprise as it was the last time.

Again he is lying in a comfortable bed, although the room he must be in smells unfamiliarly, and he hears hushed voices, whispering angrily.

Thorin takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Immediately the whispering stops.

"Stay back," someone murmurs. "I'll talk to him." Then Frerin steps into his range of vision. "Brother," he greets, voice impersonal and face a blank mask. "Whatever happened to you? You _fainted_." And the mockery in his words is more than clear.

Thorin shakes his head, trying to get rid of the fog that is clinging to his mind. His wits still not entirely together he murmurs: "Whatever happened to _you_?"

"What do you mean?" Frerin asks, sharply.

"The last I knew you were dead, brother." He cannot keep the pain out of his voice.

The blonde's wide eyes and a loud gasp coming from a corner of the room wake him completely. Oh, _bother_.

"I feel very much alive, thank you," Frerin shoots back, clearly aiming for aloofness, but unable to keep the insecurity from his voice. "Explain … please."

Knowing that he has said too much to back out of this now Thorin sits up and spots Oin in a corner of the room which must be Frerin's. The healer looks at him with squinted eyes, distrust plain as day. It hurts.

"The last I remember before… waking up in my rooms… is lying in a healer's tent at the edge of a battlefield, dying," he reveals, slowly.

Again his brother's eyes widen almost comically. There are emotions burned into them Thorin cannot read.

"I… a hobbit was with me," he continues. "Bilbo Baggins. Do you know what became of him?"

"I have never heard that name," Frerin answers, and for the first time he does not sound like he _hates_ Thorin. "I am sorry. Please… brother… tell me everything. You said you remembered me to be dead, and yourself dying. I… help me to understand."

"Fili!" Thorin suddenly remembers. "And Kili! What about them? Do they live?"

His brother's eyes are sad. "I have never heard of them."

The dark-haired prince – king – prince? – feels his heart drop to his boots. "No!" he whispers. "That cannot be!" He is not even ashamed of the tears rolling down his cheeks, for the lads would have been his brother's sister-sons as well. He would know them.

Now clearly thrown off track Frerin watches as the older one weeps and finally takes a seat on the edge of the bed, putting a hand onto his brother's shoulder. "Tell me," he asks again and this time his voice is treacherously soft.

Thorin looks at him, his vision blurred, and asks: "Did the dragon ever come?"

"Which dragon?"

He understands, then. And is horrified. His heart's desire… his wish has been granted. Oh, he wishes-

_Nothing_.

He does not think he will dare wishing ever again.

"As I remember it," he begins, voice raw "in 2770 Smaug the Golden came. He killed many dwarves that day and burned Dale down; and we lost our home to a fire-breathing dragon. We of Erebor were a homeless people, then, wandering the wilds; never having enough to eat, never being able to properly provide for the sick and old. Grandfather-" He gulps. "… Grandfather marched against the orcs of Moria, and in the battle of Azanulbizar many more lives were lost. His was among them… as was yours, and Fundin's." The name makes his brother flinch.

However, Thorin neither has the heart nor the strength to ask, not now. Instead he continues: "Father… father went mad that night. I never saw him again, although I kept looking for him until the end. We returned to wandering the wilds then… but in the end we settled in the Blue Mountains, and I tried my best to provide for my people, but what could I do? My only joy were the lads." He suppresses a sob. "Fili and Kili… Dis' boys. Their father died after only a few years, and I helped bring them up. I am afraid I was not the best uncle, but I did what I could and I loved them dearly. Now, about a year ago… I stumbled upon Gandalf the Grey. He talked me into marching for the Lonely Mountain, stealing the Arkenstone away from underneath' Smaug's nose, calling upon the oath the seven dwarf kingdoms have sworn to the king's jewel and slay the dragon with their help. Reclaim my – our – home."

He is silent after that.

When a few minutes have passed Frerin asks quietly: "What happened?"

Thorin's laughter is hollow. "No more than twelve dwarves followed me on my quest. Twelve dwarves, a wizard… and a hobbit. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. At first I thought very badly of him, but in the end… without him we would have been lost."

"Who followed you?" Oin speaks up for the first time.

Thorin stares at him. "You did," he says. "And your brother. Fili and Kili. Balin and Dwalin. Ori, Nori and Dori; as well as Bifur, Bofur and Bombur."

Half of the names make his brother and the healer flinch.

He feels like there is a hole where his stomach should be. "What happened to them?" he asks, almost pleading.

Frerin gulps heavily. "How about that: You… you tell us what happened in your… world, and then we tell you what happened in this one."

Thorin nods, slowly. "Alright," he says. "Well. We rode for Erebor, in the process enjoying the hospitality of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, being saved by the Eagles, meeting the skinchanger Beorn and escaping from Thranduil's" he spits the name "cells. When we reached the mountain Bilbo went in through a back door and… and… he woke the dragon, but found the Arkenstone. However, he hid it from us. Bard of Laketown slew Smaug, however, the men as well as the elves of Mirkwood were ready to march against us, in order to demand a part of the treasure. Bilbo… gave them the Arkenstone and offered them his share, so that there would be not battle and I…" he gulps, the memory burning painfully. "I… sick with the goldfever I almost killed him for it. Had Gandalf not arrived just in time…

"I was so angry, however, I did not have much time to be. An army of orcs and one of goblins was marching to meet us, and only because of Bilbo's quick thinking we managed to form an alliance with the men and elves and fight them off. Dain of the Iron Mountains arrived in time to help, as did the Eagles, Beorn and Gandalf. Still I was mortally wounded and my sister-sons… they lay dead. Bilbo sat with me in my last hours, and I begged for his forgiveness… and with all my might I wished that the dragon had never come. Never did I expect to wake up again."

He ends there, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. Oh, it is his fault that the lads have met such a terrible end!

Frerin's hand slides down his arm and the fingers he used to know so well squeeze his. "I am sorry," the blonde whispers. "I… I wish I could tell you that everything is better here, that your wish improved all that which was wrong in your life… but…"

"Tell me," Thorin whispers, voice raw. "Please. I need to know."

Frerin and Oin exchange a look. "Alright," the prince finally says. "I suppose I should start with Grandfather. He… is dead here, too. He died of an unknown disease… I have always suspected that it was father's doing. _King Thrain_ is as sick with the gold fever as you claim to have been. We do not know for sure of course, but I… we… believe that he wanted the throne for himself.

"As soon as he had it… those he could not trust, those he knew to be loyal to the kingdom instead of him… were executed for treason, which he only made up of course. Fundin, Balin and Dwalin… all of them met that fate." He closes his eyes and Thorin remembers how dear they had been to his brother as well.

"Dis never married. She was in love, granted, but he… was one of those who were a thorn in father's side. I do not know about some of those you mentioned, but I remember a dwarf called Dori dying in a work accident when one of the forging furnaces exploded. Bofur I have heard of as well. He… the working conditions in the mines are terrible. He fell, and hit his head. The healers stitched him back together, and he survived, but… he will never wake again. Also, keeping him alive is expensive and his brothers, I have heard, are working themselves to death for it. Oin and Gloin… went into hiding before father could have them executed as well. He killed all his family but us three and the two of them in the end, and they barely made it out in time. However, Gloin could not safe his wife in the and she was…"

"…expecting," Oin finishes.

"Gimli!" Thorin exclaims, anguished, and now the hole is where his heart should be. Gimli, Fili and Kili. Balin and Dwalin, Dori, Bofur… so much sorrow, and just because of him!

Oin's face is bitter. "That they wanted to call him," he agrees. "You knew him?"

"He was a lovely lad," Thorin whispers. "but too young to accompany us, fortunately. He wanted to, but neither of us let him." He stares at a wall, the pain too great to deal with it. "I am so sorry," he then says. "This is all my fault. So much death…"

"I have never faced the wrath of a dragon, or marched against the orcs of Moria, but I can imagine how many lives it must have cost… many more than your wish did," his brother murmurs.

"But you said the people are not happy!"

"They are not," Frerin agrees. "Father treats them really badly, he is a tyrant if there ever was one. Which is why there is a group of rebels. We cannot do much, though. Most of them, like Oin and Gloin, are hiding in the mines. Only very few are not wanted, and not even I or Dis have had the opportunity to change anything. Getting Oin here to examine you was… risky."

"And I?" Thorin asks, almost afraid of the answer. "Where am I in all this?"

His brother's eyes are sad. "You… never even tried to help. We do not think you were in on father's machinations when he killed grandfather and the executions began. Now, however… you are as sick with the goldfever as he is. Or rather, you were."

For a few long moments Thorin just stares at him. Then he jumps to his feet and rushes towards where the bathroom must be, almost falling in the process, and ends up retching into the toilet.

* * *

Thorin hates his father, for what he is doing to his people. He hates Erebor, for not being the kingdom he had _died_ for. He hates the gold, for ruining everything. But most of all he hates himself, for that one damned wish.

He spent almost three days in his brother's rooms, making plans and Frerin (and later Dis) teaching him how to behave so that the king would not be suspicious. By now he is back out and about, trying to be the bastard he is known for being here, and at the same time doing his best to change as much as possible.

For his people.

He has visited Bofur, in the black of night, and wept for hours at his loyal companion's sickbed. He has been to the small graves his siblings – despite their father's prohibition – have dug for those who have fallen prey to the executions, in a tiny clearing in Mirkwood. He has talked to Thranduil, who had tried to kill him before Frerin explained. That the elves are secretly helping the rebels, the elves who are at cold war with Thrain (and Thorin) hurts. He has managed to find Nori, one of those hiding with Oin and Gloin – the one who gets food for them, and weapons – and Ori in the process. Sweet, shy Ori, who is a street rat now. He has given Bifur and Bombur as much money as possible without alerting his father.

He has joined the rebellion.

There is not much time for sleeping and eating now, and he looks it every inch, for the days he spends leading Thrain astray, and in the nights he works for the revolution.

They have taken to recruiting dwarves, starting with the low classes and working their way up. Ori and Nori are geniuses at finding out who can be trusted as well as uncovering Thrain's spies; and Thorin and Frerin are those who talk to possible rebels. Frerin, the prince who has been on the side of his people all along; and Thorin, the prince who has had a mysterious change of mind and now is an ally more valuable than any other.

When they leave again people _trust_ them and are ready to give their lives for the revolution.

The plans are as simple as they are difficult to perform, and King Thranduil of Mirkwood is the one who contributes the most. A coup is what they are working towards, and the day is drawing closer and closer.

Once again Thorin works himself to death for his family. His family who has always consisted of those few he has left who are related to blood (and Thrain does not count), as well as of his people.

This was his fault.

And he is going to rectify things.

Finally the big day has come. There will be a feast – the celebrations for his father's birthday – and each and every one of the cooks, waiters and other servants is a member of the rebels. At the same time, while the preparations in the Lonely Mountain are running high, Thranduil and a squad of elven fighters gear up for overthrowing the Lord of Dale. They will have to work completely in tandem, so that neither party can help the other.

When waking up Thorin was nervous, close to panicking even, but now he is filled with calm satisfaction. This is going to end tonight, one way or the other, and he will be the one to bring his people peace once again.

He is sitting next to his father at the huge table, and the guards standing behind them are all some of those who the rebels have managed to flip.

When the signal comes – a short blow of an elven horn outside the mountain, easily heard through the open door to Thrain's personal balcony – he does not hesitate to rise the dagger the hilt of which he has been gripping, hidden underneath his tunic, all the time. Not pausing for a moment he slices it through the King's throat in one swift movement. Immediately a loud uproar begins, but more than half of the dwarves present are rebels and within two hours Frerin sits upon the throne, and one Bain son of Bard has been given Lordship over Dale.

Elves and dwarves celebrate together that night, but not Thorin.

He locks himself in his suite and weeps for all those lives his wish has cost, and for having to kill his own father in order to grant his people a good life. He weeps for everything that was and might have been and when morning dawns he wipes his tears away, grasps his pack and makes for his brother's room.

Both Frerin and Dis are already waiting for him.

"I hate to see you go, now that I finally got my brother back," the newly crowned king says.

Thorin's smile is as sincere as it is sad. "I am sorry," he says. "But I cannot stay."

"I understand that," his sister whispers, and there are tears in her eyes. "We both understand. But still, it is hard to let you go. Please… take care of yourself."

"Will you come to visit us?"

"I promise," Thorin answers, and he knows that he will. These are his sister whom he has stolen her sons (twice), and his brother whom he has thought lost for many years. He loves them, with all his heart. However, Erebor… is a place he cannot stand being in any longer.

"What did Ori and Nori say? Will they accompany you?"

He has talked to those two members of his company, told them everything, and offered them to come to the Shire with him when all this is over.

"Ori will, but Nori declined. He cannot leave his brother's grave behind."

"Take care of him as well."

"I will," Thorin promises. "Now, I have to leave." He hugs his sister and tips his forehead against his brother's.

"Give Thranduil our regards," the blonde answers. "And we are expecting you to send a letter as soon as you have reached the shire."

"I will," the defeated prince repeats.

Then he leaves Erebor without looking back.

* * *

The journey to the Shire is not as perilous as the one to the Lonely Mountain had been, but it is dangerous none the less.

In the evenings Thorin teaches Ori how to write, which he has never learned here, and how to wield a sword. He teaches him how to _live_, actually, and basically adopts him as the son he has never had and the sister-son he has lost. Just like Ori adopts him as the older brother he has missed so dearly.

They make it to the Shire in a fairly short time, and the moment they step unto hobbit paths and meadows he begins to look out for holes that may be uninhabited, and smithies where he might find work.

Still, their first stop is Bag End.

By now Ori knows everything about the quest, and is as eager to see the burglar as Thorin is.

Knowing that the other will no longer recognize him, but needing to see him alive and well; the dark-haired dwarf knocks at the round green door.

A low mutter can be heard – it _is_ already rather late in the evening – and then the door is opened.

Thorin thinks his heart stops.

He realizes then that seeing Bilbo again is the only wish he has allowed himself to keep through all these months. He stares at the hobbit who looks pale and tired, and watches as the lovely eyes widen.

"Thorin!"

"You… remember?" the dwarf asks, gasping for air.

"Of course I do," Bilbo rants. "Although I still have not found out what has happened. Apparently I have never gone on an adventure, and from what Elrond told me Smaug never came… however that is possible." He wraps his arms around Thorin's neck then. "And you! How can you be alive? I though you dead, you idiot! Do you have any idea how much I wept for you?" He hugs Ori as well and then drags both of them into his hole. "Come, it is never too late for a snack!"

"I _was_ dead."

The hobbit freezes.

Thorin tells him everything, then, and many tears are shed that night.

* * *

Thorin is almost happy.

It is the best he will get, he supposes, and more than he ever expected after waking up in this twisted world.

After all, Ori is happy, his people are happy, Dis is happy. Bilbo is happy, Frerin is happy, and even Thranduil is happy.

Thorin is living in a very comfortably hobbit hole now, together with its owner, Ori and a lad named Frodo, and he works at the smithy in Hobbiton every day. The one he has adopted as his son is a scribe, and the one he has finally accepted as his partner is waiting for him every evening with a delicious meal and a smile on his sweet lips.

And as time has passed Thorin has realized that the one wish he had really wanted fulfilled all along has come true:

Bilbo is part of his family.


End file.
